Kelly’s Escape

(Kelly's POV)

My stomach began to churn, folding in on itself. My vision blurred, Paulo's face dancing before my eyes. I was not myself anymore. I felt like a puppet, being made to dance around the room.

The sound of laughter echoed in the background, growing louder with each passing moment. It was like a chant, a cruel mockery of my predicament.

I stumbled, my legs giving way beneath me, and I fell to the floor. My vision was still blurry, but I could see sparks of light dancing around me. I raised my hands to shield my face, the light too bright for my sensitive eyes.

Suddenly, I heard footsteps approaching. I tried to steady myself, to prepare for whoever was coming.

But it was no use. My eyes were spinning, and so was my head. I felt like I was on a never-ending carousel, spinning out of control.

Suddenly, I felt a strange sensation. It was as if my weight had been lifted off the floor. I felt light, almost as if I was floating. The surface beneath me felt soft, like a cloud.

"Mamacita, pretty Mamacita," a voice echoed around me. It was like the sound of a drum, loud and rhythmic. I tried to focus on the voice, but it was difficult. My head was still spinning, and my vision was blurry.

"Who's there?" I managed to croak out, my voice barely above a whisper. But the only response was the continued echo of the voice, "Mamacita, pretty Mamacita." The sound was getting louder, filling my ears until it was the only thing I could hear.

I felt hands hitting my body, like a rhythmic beat. I was beginning to regain a bit of myself, my senses slowly returning. I felt something dripping onto me, like paper. I held onto it, feeling it slide down my belly as I continued to dance.

And so, it dawned on me. I had been made a spectacle, a figure of entertainment. As my senses returned, I saw men seated around me, their faces obscured by the smoke from their large cigars. Their desks were littered with all kinds of alcoholic drinks.

I looked at my reflection in a nearby mirror and fell to the floor, shocked at my own appearance. I wondered what had happened while I was intoxicated. The last thing I remember was Paulo handing me that drink. What had he done to me? I felt a wave of anger and fear wash over me. I had to get out of here. But how? I was still too weak, my head still spinning.

Just when I thought it was over, one of the men said in Spanish, "Trae más dinero y más bebidas" in English, "Bring more money and more drinks." I was falling to the ground, and the voices I heard were filled with disappointment. I wondered if they were disappointed that I had regained myself or disappointed that I was no longer entertaining them.

As this was going on, a man dressed in black from head to toe didn't hesitate to push a trunk filled with money and drinks towards me. He stopped it in front of me, and one of the men got up to make a move. I wished in my heart for a miracle.

And then it happened. The sound of bullets began to sound, and the man who was approaching me was the first to fall, a bullet straight to the back of his head. The room erupted into chaos, but all I could do was lie there, hoping that this nightmare would soon be over.

With bullets flying all over the room, I kept my head down, trying to duck and cover. I couldn't see who was shooting anymore. All I heard was a voice saying, "Es el fin del juego" which translates to it's game over then the last sound of a gun echoed in the room before everything went silent.

Then, someone took me by the hand. I looked up and saw Rashad. His face was a mix of relief and concern. He helped me to my feet, his grip firm and reassuring.

"Are you okay?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. I nodded, too shocked to speak. He gave me a small smile, "Let's get you out of here."

"This is indeed a miracle," I muttered, looking at Rashad. He was my so-called boyfriend, but in reality, he was my captor. He held my hand, his grip firm yet gentle. "I wish this is how his demeanor will always be to me, not just in this scene but in any other peaceful scene," I thought to myself as I followed him.

We got outside, and he let go of my hand as he opened the driver's seat of the boss Brabus G Wagon. He waited for me to get in through the other side. Once I was in, he kept a stern gaze on me.

Before the car moved, I said, "You never seemed to be happy for a long time." The reality of me being his prisoner returned back again.

His face remained impassive, but I could see a flicker of something in his eyes. Was it regret? Or was it something else? I couldn't tell. All I knew was that I was trapped, and I had to find a way out.

I couldn't sit still, my body moving with the bumps on the road. Rashad was driving too fast, as if we were in a race. After the scene we witnessed at the Zetas gang house, it was safe to say we were running from any possible threats that might come from the gangsters.

We arrived at a place that looked like an airport. A private jet was already waiting. Rashad stopped the Brabus car and got out. He turned to me and said, "Run! Run!" I had to run for my life. I ran until I reached the private jet.

With Rashad behind me, bullets started flying. I didn't see who was shooting, but I guessed it was the Zetas gang. Rashad wasn't fast enough. He was shot in the leg, and the second bullet hit the aircraft man who was supposed to usher us in.

Rashad, with blood gushing out of his leg, managed to get into the private jet. I shut the door behind us, his hand trembling in pain. The jet took off, leaving the chaos behind. I could only hope that we would be safe now.

I couldn't just sit and watch Rashad bleed, so I leaned forward to offer support, but he refused my help. The second crew member of the aircraft, the only one who had survived aside from the pilot, came to his aid. But again, Rashad refused any help, choosing to nurse the injury himself.

As he growled in pain, the blood kept flowing profusely, filling the jet with an awful smell of blood. I felt uncomfortable, the sound of Rashad's growling was irritating. I knew he could just accept some help, but he stubbornly refused.

"Rashad, let us help you," I pleaded, but he just shook his head. His stubbornness was infuriating, but I knew better than to argue with him. I could only hope that he would be okay. After all, we had just escaped a nightmare, and I am still in shock of how he escaped.

I didn't want to argue any further with Rashad, so I turned my attention to the window. As we got closer to the ground, I noticed that the trip was a lot faster than I had expected. Rashad didn't stop growling as we descended, the pain from his wound evident in his voice.

Soon enough, I could see the ground. We had landed. The aircraft man opened the private jet from the inside. The first people to greet us were the Purple Gangsters, the gang boys of which Rashad was their leader. Two men held Rashad, one on each side, helping him out of the jet.

I followed behind, unnoticed. I felt a pang of loneliness, but I pushed it aside. I had to stay strong. After all, I am lucky to have survived the hands of those monstrous zetas gangs and all the disastrous scenes I've witnessed so far.

They laid Rashad on the floor, and a nurse with a rounded figure appeared. I was surprised. The last time I was here in Bandidos, I didn't see a nurse. I wondered where she had come from.

"Where did you come from?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. The nurse didn't respond, her attention focused on Rashad. I watched as she expertly tended to his wound, her movements swift and precise.

Despite the chaos that had just occurred, there was a strange sense of calmness in the room. The nurse's presence seemed to have a calming effect on everyone, even Rashad. His growls of pain had subsided, replaced by quiet grunts as the nurse worked on his wound.

I couldn't help but feel a sense of relief. Maybe we would be okay after all. But I knew better than to let my guard down. We were still in danger, and I had to stay alert.